


After

by spnstuck



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: B), F/M, Some Humor, eh, post-aogiri, reflection stuff, then kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnstuck/pseuds/spnstuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An observation of consequences, dichotomies, and the concept of after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

The inherent problem with _after_ , Touka observed, was that it meant there had been a change from  _before._   

And there had definitely been a change from before.

But _after_ didn't define any amount of change, or what change had occurred, or if it was good or bad, or how it affected others (nevermind the person who had gone from  _before_ to  _after_ ), or why Kaneki-fucking-Ken was different.

Because he was, in a word, different.  

Different more than just his hair and his newfound mastery with kagune.

He was different in his glassy gray eyes and in his jerkiness of movement and his new habit of speaking coolly, calmly, fluidly.

There were, Touka finally realized, two sides to this new Kaneki.

 

The first was a sense of blankness.  He was there but also  _not_ there, as if a passing breeze could blow him right over, or even through him completely.  He didn't talk, didn't drink coffee, didn't read.  He only existed in the barest brushing of the word.  

One thing he  _did_ do quite a lot of was crack his fingers.

There was one time Touka remembered with particular irritation. They'd been working at Anteiku since twelve on a particularly long shift (It was Yomo's day off), and he'd just cracked his fingers for the fourth time that hour when he did it again.

"Stop it," she snapped, banging the dishwasher door shut.

"Huh?"  He replied absently, glancing up from a dish he was scrubbing.  

"Cracking your knuckles," she said, gesticulating vaguely towards his crumbling fingernails.  "It's annoying."

He looked down at his hands with a faintly surprised expression, as if he wasn't sure she was talking about  _his_ hands.  "Oh.  Sorry."

 Not three minutes had passed when he did it again.  

"Kaneki!"  She hissed.

"Sorry."

"Just...don't do it again!  I just told you!"  

"Oh.  Sorry."

"Stop apologizing for everything too!  Just...don't crack your fingers, and you won't have to apologize."

"Sor-" He squinted.  "Okay."

She wanted him to get mad.  To snap back with a sarcastic comment, to clench his jaw, to accuse her of something, to explain himself, to blush, to cry, to do  _something._ She wanted him to react.  Anything would be better than this... _stagnation._ He was so pale, so hollow, so empty, that it was possible he wasn't there at all.

It frustrated her.  Touka wasn't used to unemotional people or feeling unemotional herself.  She'd lost her footing, pushed out of her comfort zone; in a fight, she could always hit back or defend herself.  She could joke with someone who was happy, try to help someone who was upset.  But Kaneki was so blank there was nothing to work off of.

She was afraid to confront him too.  She wasn't afraid of  _him_ -well actually, maybe she was, just a little bit.  What he'd done to her brother Ayato was a display of violence even she had to shield her eyes from, turn away so that she wouldn't feel nauseous, pretend that Kaneki wasn't individually breaking the bones of her last family member.  

But no, she was more scared of how he would react when he finally did.  It was only a matter of time, after all, everyone in Anteiku knew that.   Kaneki was walking on a tightrope strung over nails, and he'd shatter, twist, break on them when he'd finally lose his balance.

 

And yet....there were times where he was a storm of emotion, filling entire rooms with bitterness, regret, terror, melancholy, joy, insanity, the whole lot.

She noticed it when his hands shook while pouring coffee.  Sometimes he shouted or cried in his sleep.  Sometimes he snapped at her, or Nishiki, and once even Hinami.  His outbursts were random and confusing, more frustration and anger than genuine hatred, but it disturbed her all the same.

The change made him so... _different._

 

Sometimes he just left her bitterly confused.

 

Anteiku was nearing closing time; the windows were cloaked with black and a customer hadn't appeared for hours.  Rain tickled the roof, creating a steady buzz in the background.  Touka and Kaneki were the only ones in the room, working in synchronization to wipe down tables.  Neither of them had said anything since Nishiki declared his shift over and vanished upstairs.

There was a certain charge in the air.  A stretched awkwardness that poked at Touka's nerves.  She felt like she had to say something to break the tension, but there was also the naggling feeling that suggested that if she said something wrong or didn't say anything at all, something about their friendship would slip away, dissolve.  She'd lose a chance to solve something important.

These moments had crept up on her before, and each time, she'd held her silence.  Each time she felt the distance to Kaneki grow.  There was an emptiness that seemed to come with a lost opportunity. 

But what would she say?  She glanced at him while leaning over the counter.  He didn't seem to notice her indecision, focused intently on rearranging the chairs that had been knocked out of place during the afternoon rush.

 _Okay, you have to make this an actual conversation.  Don't fuck up.  Ask about something. Just try to talk to him.  You've been needing some help in Classical Literature-_ that was true enough, Touka recalled with a wince- _and he likes to read, so can he help you understand a certain passage?  Yeah.  Good.  Don't fuck up.  Take this opportunity to see how he's feeling._

"Hey," she said.

He straightened.  "Yes?"  Those unsettling eyes, a monotone voice that barely lilted the end of the word to make it a question instead of a statement.  

"You like to read."   _Oh my God._

 "...Yes?"

"Help me-damn, I mean, can you help me understand something for my classic literature class?"  _You fucked up._

He tilted his head.  "What do you need help with?"

"It's a certain passage," she answered, ducking down behind the counter to where she kept her lit book to study between crowds.   _Smart.  At least you didn't take it upstairs._  That'd be awkward.

She set the book on an empty space, much more gently than she usually would.  He circled the edge of the bar to stand next to her.  The charge was stronger now.  Moving too much, talking too loudly, would cause it to ripple and bend away.

She flicked through the pages, acutely aware of him leaning over her shoulder.  "This one.  I don't get it."

He pulled the book closer, then snatched his hand back.  "Can I..?"  

"Yeah-yeah, go ahead," Touka said quickly, pushing it to him.  

He traced each line of the poem with one finger.  

 

_Colors._

_It was red at first, being surrounded by her._

_A souring brown with suggestions and barbed words._

_Red again when she shouted and threw the ring._

_Simmering maroon that came with faded heat._

_Blue when her absence was cold._

_Gray in stagnation._

_Black._

_But yellow_ _when you appeared._

 

"Well, what don't you understand?"

Touka frowned, tapping the edge of the textbook. "I get that he's talking about a relationship that went wrong.  And it gets better at the end.  And the colors...my teacher said it has something to do with emotions, which I sort of get, but not all of them make sense."

"Do you want to start from the beginning?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay, so, this poem associates colors with events.  In this poem, colors take the place of where emotions would be described."

Touka scowled.  "Why would he do that?  I get it, but why?"

"It's a stylistic choice," Kaneki explained.

She rolled her eyes.  "Maybe if he had shared his feelings with whoever-she-is, instead of throwing out colors,  she wouldn't have dumped his ass."

There.  The barest trace of a smile before it flickered away.  Today was a good day.

"So you understand the connotation of red?" He asked.

"Yes," she said quickly, "It's not really that, it's questions like-well, my teacher was asking us why just the word 'black' was used instead of describing an event to go along with it."

"What do you think?"

"I wouldn't be asking you if I knew, would I?"   _Shit, was that too far?  Too aggressive?_

But he wasn't looking at her; he had turned back to the page with a thoughtful expression.  "I'll try to explain as best I can.  The author uses an event with each color to clarify what happened and how he felt about it.  Like I said, it's the color's job to tell the emotion the speaker is feeling.  Red is passion, gray is...well, a gray-area in the relationship, used to show ambiguity and confusion.  Black has a very clear negative attachment.  It's associated with death, emptiness, that sort of thing.  The author thinks that the emotions associated with black are clear enough that he doesn't feel the need to say anything else.  The audience can understand the meaning on their own, and the abrupt lack of detail matches the abrupt change the speaker feels in his own life."

"...Wow."

"What?"

"This poem is incredibly stupid."

"No writing is stupid!  It's...not the best, but it meant a lot to the author."

"The author needs to get out more."

"That might be true."

"Also, you're a huge nerd."

His pale complexion was suddenly tinted with pink.  "I am not!  I just like to read!  There's nothing wrong with that!"

"Nerd," she grinned playfully.  But he didn't respond immediately.  The smile slid from her face.

"Let's just focus back on the poem," he said finally, turning his shoulder to her.  Touka's excitement dropped out of her stomach.  Something sticky and heavy had taken its place.  She'd been so close to something.  But his sudden seriousness blew her back to the same uncertainty.  

"Okay," she said slowly, "My teacher also said to discuss the change in tone in the last line."

"There's also a change in audience, I think.  He's talking openly to a general public in the beginning by telling a story, but the last line indicates that he's speaking directly  _to_ someone.  He says that person made his life yellow-bright, natural-which means he's found happiness with someone else, and moved on from the past."

"That...makes sense."

Silence.  Touka inspected one chipped nail.

"Do you have to write a report?"

"No, just answer a few discussion questions.  You helped."  She pulled the book back towards her side of the counter without looking up, sliding it neatly into the spot she usually kept it.  "Uh, thanks."  

"You're welcome."

"Did you finish getting the tables over there?"

"Yes."

 _What did I say?  What did I do wrong?_  She exhaled slowly, still pretending to adjust the book even though it was as far back on the shelf as it could go.  Touka bit her lip, blinking once slowly.   _Don't even think about it.  Just do it._ "Kaneki, is there something wrong?"  She blurted.

"What do you mean?"  She straightened, meeting his piercing gaze with frustration.

"You're just, I don't know-" _Say it._ "-Different."

"Different?  Different how?"  His voice had changed, smoothing over until all expression was ironed out.  

"I feel like I can't talk to you anymore.  Not as friends."  Her face began burning, but she'd said it now.  Now there was only room for straightforwardness, no more cloudiness or hesitation.

"Then how are we talking?"

"Like strangers!  You're not even the same  _person_ anymore!"

"I'm not."  A statement, not a question.

"No," Touka stammered, "You're not."   _Finally?_

  ****

He still wasn’t looking at her.  “I…”  The sentence lay suspended, unfinished.  She waited, but it appeared that he was done talking.

That same charge was back, stronger this time, like it was a physical sensation instead of her own nerves manifested in the air.

She kept her gaze focused up, down, on her fingers, anywhere but his face.  She did allow them to focus on the nervous clench of his shoulders, his lean frame, and messy white hair that barely brushed over his eyes.   _Shit._

Her face grew hot again and she forced herself to look away.  Her hands were trembling just enough to be irritating, especially when he could just look to the left and see her…

“Touka?”  He asked.   _Shit, shit, SHIT._

He was staring at her. Foggy eyes burrowing into hers.  “What?  What do you want?”

“Sorry…” He muttered.

A pulse of hesitation.

She whirled around and yanked his tie down so that his lips were pressed onto hers.   _What the FUCK am I doing?_

But with a slap of shock (and a small tinge of satisfaction), he kissed her back, using one arm to scoop her closer to him, arching her backwards so that her face was tilted closer to his.

She leaned back enough to trip and hit the wall, but he only used that as an excuse to kiss her harder.  

Every molecule in Touka’s body felt like it was glowing, and the spots where he brushed against her seemed electrified like that’d been tattooed.  It was utterly embarrassing and would only have been more so if Yoshimura or Yoriko strolled in.  Or Hinami.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, messing it up even further.  He traced swirls down her neck and across her collarbones, and she shivered with...joy?  Fear?  She was making out with a cannibal.  Of sorts.

She was breathless when they pulled away, the sound of rain and flickering lights roaring back to fill the empty space in the room.

The expression on his face was priceless.  It was the funniest one she’d seen him wear, which was saying a lot, considering how much he embarrassed himself.  He looked like he’d been slapped instead of kissed.

“Um,” he said.

“Fuck,” she said.

It wasn’t the last time that would happen.  They didn’t really talk about it openly.  Touka searched her mind desperately for how to confront the situation.  She could ask Yoriko?  

_Hey, Yoriko, you know that guy that was my room that one time you came over?  And you thought we were dating?  Okay, well, we’re not dating, but sometimes we make out and then we don’t really talk about it or anything?  No, he’s not my boyfriend, at least I don’t think so.  See, this only started happening after he was tortured by this sort of gangster ghoul organization-it’s led partly by my brother, he’s fourteen-and his hair turned white and he became so different.  It really worries me, I’m afraid something really bad has happened to him and he won’t talk about it-he won’t talk much at all, really, not even after we kiss and stuff-but he’s kind of hot and I really care about him.  Do you have any advice?_

No, it would not go over well.

 

 

 


End file.
